


A Good Start

by silentsoundy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Masturbation, Other, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22922416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsoundy/pseuds/silentsoundy
Summary: [a one-off from Discord]
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	A Good Start

**Author's Note:**

> [a one-off from Discord]

The Wraith is back like he said he would be, quasi-punctual too if people are going to nitpick at the logistics of his return to Gibraltar. However he's hardly in the mood to immediately socialize. Sure his assignment has been successfully completed, no casualties among his little strike team, and he's whole and fit and fresh from injections, a tour in the Tank, and has had his fill of collateral damage snacking. There should be nothing keeping a bounce in his step and the usual snark and smarminess from making the rounds. But he's brooding, acutely self- aware, and irritable. Somewhat expected while coming down off of an adrenaline high, though his focuses are directed towards all the wrong outlets. So he'll sequester himself in a room either most know nothing about or aren't interested in using, to see if he's capable of handling this simmering aggression without helping hands. As of late, there are very few, if any helping hands willing to expend the energy required to dissipate what fuels this itch.

The double doors to this dark living space will remain unlocked though sensors will alert him should anyone bother to stop by and sate their curiosity as to what goes on in this lowest level of private quarters. Satisfied with that decision, he begins to shed his kit, taking his time wanting to hear each piece drop and thud heavily against the slate flooring. Gauntlets and greaves and owl's skull fall in a twisted trail as he makes his way towards the small washroom cached to the side. Cloak slumps next, wet and heavy with tacky gore and grime. Belts click one by one, hung up against the walls on individual shackles, the two at his waist with accessories then the one strapping smaller canisters around his chest. The Kevlar comes next to clatter about, the tac gear follows, pants and shirt shoved to one side piled with skivvies. Any sort of weaponry is not to be found. He could have most definitely, simply even, shed his gear in a single breath, wraith and be done with it. But the motions of expending the time and energy stripping down make him feel human, alive as memories of post-op rituals float to the surface of his thoughts. Army, SEP, Overwatch, Blackwatch. These ministrations aren't new to him, the muted mantra remains the same even now though practiced far less often.

The light of the washroom fades on to its full luminosity and he'll stand in the doorway facing a mirror, a reflection of himself obviously staring right back at the Wraith. Deathly gray, old scars fading into ashen flesh, new wounds healing fast, that Y-incision raised as if fresh, pink. The soot stains his extremities, toes to ankles to halfway up his calves to blend with the ash almost making the overgrown keratin of his nails unremarkable. Claw-tipped fingers and thumbs stained to wrist and the majority of his forearms in very much the same manner, digits twitch and flex of their own volition.

Once upon a time he'd been vain, sure. Who wasn't out of SEP? Who wasn't while under the banner of Overwatch, the elite of the elite? Now morbid stunted curiosity takes place of the façade of vanity as red-rimmed eyes rove over every detail mirrored back at him. Above all else, he hates his hair, keeping it trimmed and neat an impossible task. Turning his attention to a hidden control panel next to the shower, a few taps and swipes has the water running hot from the plethora of taps and spouts lining the walls and ceiling of the bathing area and without pausing he'll step under the cleansing flow. With his partner, he relishes long showers and steamy sex pressed against tile and held precariously balanced on slippery tubs' surfaces. Alone, the Wraith fights the urge to speed through five minute rinses, habits hammered into him from decades long since passed. Palms are pressed against a wall, forehead rests just as delicately, and he'll allow the hot flow of water to wash over him for a good long while, foregoing the urge to watch whatever muck that may or may not circle the drain between his feet. Minutes pass and he'll eventually lean away to take a step back, reaching for another hidden panel that contains a small storage space for showering necessities. Soaps and cleansers, conditioners and aftercare, pre-and-post sex kits. He rummages around, selecting this and that, and once satisfied, he returns to set up bottles and a sponge, a small enema kit that he prepares first. Though a figurative pain in the ass, once getting the hang of it early on without disastrously hilarious results, the Wraith has come to enjoy the sensation of getting filled and flushed, cleansed and prepped so thoroughly. No exception to the ministrations this time, he goes through the motions with a little more than a lazy chub to show for his efforts. Kit disposed of, he'll lather up to scrub his body down and rid himself of whatever's left clinging from his mission.

He's slow but rough with the scrubbing, lather rinsing away to reveal ashen skin flushed pale pink threaded with beading claw marks swiped over his body. Shoulders and arms, torso and hips, thighs and ass all lightly scored with thin lines raised over irritated skin. Once the water stops he takes a good five minutes toweling off, wringing that length of unruly salt-and-pepper waves to knot loosely in a tail trailing down the middle of his back. Another lingering pass at that mirror has him catching his own gaze before having it wander to rove about his body once more, pausing when his attention's caught by a muted glint of those piercings lining the underside of his cock. A few slow strokes that make each barbell shift in the crooks of his fingers, his thumb smooths from the very tip to massage tiny circles into the glans. He draws in a slow, steady breath, a quirk of a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth then he releases himself to bounce and settle stiff, making to cup and tug at his sack once before turning to leave the washroom. The cool floor feels good against his bare feet, a pleasure he's picked up around Gibraltar ever since he's occupied the abandoned outpost, and it's with measured footfalls that he makes his way towards a large wrought iron toy chest. Goodies unimaginable await only the kinkiest of curiosities, and the Wraith takes his time in selecting something thick, flared, bulbous, and big. Pretty tame, all things considered, but he really hadn't come here to fly solo for hours. A semi-quick-fix will do. For now.

He settles for a leather chaise lounge as his comfort and support, straddling the cushioned seat just to feel the sensation of the smooth, yielding suppleness between his legs, pressing against his thighs, his sack, his spread ass and taint. A moment with eyes closed, he'll hardly notice when he bites down on his bottom lip and tilts his head back, when he begins to grind down with a slow and deliberate rhythm. A sigh when he opens his eyes to find himself bent and leaning against the sweeping back of the chaise, chest against that leather and fingers pinching a nipple. Using that raised side of the chaise to rest his weight, he shift a leg to perch atop the lounge, canting his hips at a very receptive angle and pauses to simply take in his current posture and position. The toy resting against the cushions, he goes about the efforts of lubing up his right hand, fingers, thumb, claws, discarding the small bottle when he's all slick and warm. Showering had warmed his body, his muscles and skin and touch, all which lends in aiding in relaxing tension and helps in easing fingers against and into that deliciously receptive puckered ring of his. Now he can't help but bite back a muttered moan, lips finding yielding leather to mouth against as he works to stretch himself further. One finger is joined by another, knuckles bent, arm tucked between his legs, cock grinding against abdomen and forearm while he rocks himself gently.

It'll take a hell of a lot more than a simple finger fucking to get him off, even when those dulled claws find that sweep spot that has him tense and twitch around his fingers and cock jumping in reaction. Still not enough to scratch that itch that's been building up. So it's with a regrettable groan and a slight reluctance that he slowly pulls out, dragging those very same slick claws against his taint to tug yet again at his sack with a yank and a mild slap. Another squirt of lube in a somewhat tacky palm, and that challenging toy gets a quick once over from tip to flared base. It takes the Wraith the better part of a solid fifteen minutes to work himself and the BBC into a twitching, shivering, satisfactory position that's got him stretched, splayed straddling the chaise once more, and hilt deep swallowing every synthetic veiny bulge it had to offer him. His eyes rolling back, he can't help himself from stupidly grinning now as he rocks the toy and his ass against that plush leather. There it is, that's the spot, nudged, deep, the perfect angle so much so that it's almost goddamn painful. He can feel his gut clenching, his sack tightening just with these little motions, and almost, almost wants to attempt to get off with prostate stimulation. It's almost too much, and before he can think twice he's got thumb and finger cinched around his cock and balls to stem and stunt orgasm. It's all way too good to end in a matter of minutes and he wants to ride this out for as long as he's capable of coherent thought.  
A free hand grips the edge of the chaise's backing, pushing himself to sway his lower back, arch himself as if riding a partner, and he'll continue to grind himself into denial after denial. There's a name flicked with tongue at the back of his teeth, growled deep, begging for those strong hands to grip his hips and thrust hard. But he's alone and takes matters into his own hand.

And take it he does, sloppy slick sliding to gunk up his cock, sack and taint, that hard working hand pawing all over his ache. Thick, rock hard, a beaded pearl already threatening, each barbell of his ladder is stretched to its full width and bounces between fingers as he strokes with increasing pace. Deep, full, squeezing passes from glans to base, nudging knuckles against his sack with every jerk. Twist and stroke, the Wraith squeezes his eyes shut and screws up his features, hunching once more to lean against the back of the chaise. Throbbing bursts of release and relief lick from deep inside slicing through him as he finally lets go and dumps his load. That sudden shock spilling over has him groaning and shuddering and twitching into a veritable mess of a man panting and seeing stars.

It's good, real good. Leaving him unable to articulate past single syllable words good. Good enough to have him harsh out all sorts of coarse and guttural expletives.

A damn good start.


End file.
